Make it Bleed
by Harukami
Summary: Pre Asellus's game: YAOI warning. Rastaban listens to Ildon's disgusted rants on the human child Orlouge has just brought in, and considers some possibilites.


Make it Bleed -by Harukami   
  
Ildon, it turns out, is the one who was put in charge of the girl. He is furious, or as furious as the darling gets. For him, he is practically ranting. Perhaps it's because he'd had to wake the 34th Princess up and move her coffin into the lower room, and Princess Velvet was notoriously stubborn; she probably argued, maybe even cried. That's the type of thing that could irritate Ildon this much.   
  
"Honestly, Rastaban," he mutters. "Just a child of a human. Fifteen, maybe. Obviously completely unsuited to Mystic life, let alone becoming Orlouge's successor."   
  
That, /that/ statement tips the scales from me, moves my responses from the fond amusement I always feel for dear Ildon to actual interest. "Maybe," I say aloud, "that's just what we need."   
  
Ildon looks so horribly offended that I have to laugh, and somehow that makes things worse. Ildon never laughs. "It's not funny," he says.   
  
It wasn't an offended huff, as he might have given years earlier, more years than I can remember now. It was a flat statement. So depressing, and Ildon /will/ continue in that flat tone: "She'll cause havoc when she wakes up."   
  
Ildon will, I know, have to look in on her every day. He had to find a bed for her earlier, for this half-mystic girl, Orlouge's successor site-unseen. She is a duty for Ildon, and he cannot see her potential.   
  
He probably couldn't, even if she wasn't another job for him. He has been in this place too long, freezing with the rest.   
  
"Forget her," I tell him, leaning in to attack his mouth with mine, trying to draw a reaction, attacking with lips and tongue and teeth until his blue blood trails in tattered streams over death-white skin, until he is moving under me.   
  
He doesn't moan, during sex, doesn't toss in the unbridled passion of stories. He touches and is touched, he bleeds and is bled for, he closes his eyes and arches and shows no emotion at all. I talk to him and he either doesn't listen or doesn't hear. Just as well: I am a blasphemer.   
  
Scream for me. I want you to gasp and moan and buck at my touch. I want you to be insensible. I want you to scream until you choke. I want your face to distort until you are not recognizable. I want you to laugh and cry and feel pain, bone-deep pain, body-deep pain. Say my name, Ildon. Bleed for me, I want you to die. Bleed for me.   
  
It does not matter how much of that I said aloud.   
  
He bleeds for me, ears closed, head arched back so that his skin can split under my teeth and spill drink-strong blood into my mouth. I bleed for him as well, his nails drawing strips of blue from my back -- he rubs his fingers in the wounds then brings them thoughtfully to his lips, sucking. It is a little victory, that type of suckling, proves his need to touch. His face may be impassive, but his eyes are distant, hot, and his hips are moving against mine, in time with my feeding at his throat.   
  
Ildon's breath stutters out as he comes, and it is enough, enough to make me climax, too.   
  
After, I find her bedroom, the room of red roses. She curls on the bed; humanity lingers. I cross the room, and the mirror reflects nothing as I go.   
  
She's so small, in the bed, roots of her hair already a mystic green, contrasting sharply with the gold-brown of the rest. Pretty, but very young. Orlouge might like young features on his princesses, but there is nothing sexual about this girl, not even her youth. And her clothing, t-shirt and shorts, so horribly plain. I admit that I'm even more given to lace and velvet than most Mystics, but this is completely unassuming, nothing-clothing. So unusual for Orlouge who enjoys the exotic beauty of his beloved arch-princesses like Golden Lion, White Rose, the Zero Princess.   
  
I can't see what Orlouge sees in this girl, but I can see something different. The future. I can feel time starting up again as I watch her. This girl is resetting the clock, sets the wheel in motion. It's easy to stop breathing in this place where we bow and do whatever Orlouge wishes -- and by now, we know what he wishes. Facinaturu is stasis, is immobile, smileless, angerless faces. Everything and nothing at all. And here is the key, on this bed. Nobody else knows it.   
  
Here is the future, curled in human clothes, and everyone is as blind as Ildon is deaf. I can see it. I will drive it forward, I will take this key.   
  
I will take it, open the door, create the future. It will bleed, bleed for me. 


End file.
